


The Best and Most Beautiful

by DementedPixie



Series: Demented Pixie's SPN Fic [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: And Gets One, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s13e17 The Thing, Episode: s13e18 Bring 'em Back Alive, Gabriel (Supernatural) Needs a Hug, Hurt Gabriel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 13:03:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15685986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DementedPixie/pseuds/DementedPixie
Summary: How did Gabriel get through his rescue and deliverance to the MOL Bunker?





	The Best and Most Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my 2018 GISH team, Misha’s Orange Undies. This story was forming in my head during GISH week while the team were all being fabulous. 
> 
> “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart”  
> ― Helen Keller

For an Archangel, the Messenger of God had certainly experienced his fair share of earthly pleasures. He understood things that so many of the heavenly host failed to grasp. Romance, passion, emotions. Being touched, being loved, being held. 

Maybe that’s what made it worse. The pain and the suffering. The torture. The thought that another creature could use him in such a terrible way. 

Because he understood, and that very understanding increased the anguish threefold.

When once he might have laughed it off, his heightened understanding meant he quickly recognised the look on this dangerous rescuer’s face, the mercenary glint in his eye. He knew he wasn’t being rescued for his own good, but because he could be useful. 

Handed over like a bag of rubbish, out of the hellish frying pan and potentially into another fire. 

He took the only escape he could. He retreated inward. 

But somehow, even in the depths of his withdrawal, he was aware of things happening around him. Being led to a chair. Being gently encouraged to sit. Being touched. And who he was being touched by.

He knew this human. In fact, he knew him well. He just thought he’d been forgotten by him. 

“Gabriel, man, what happened to you?”

A hand on his shoulder. Fingers on his lips. 

Pain.

Relief. 

Uncertainty. 

There came a passing of time. Being led to a bed that, when he sat on it, felt as though he was floating on air. And so he stayed there, concentrating on the feeling of the mattress as it supported his aching limbs. The softness helped and the isolation helped. Like the fingers on his lips had helped. 

There were bad moments. Moments that he couldn’t control. When the man with the soft fingers and his strange angel friend approached with a vial of grace in their hands, panic set in. The grace connected him to Asmodeus and he would do anything, anything, to prevent being sent back to him.

He felt sorry to have been the cause of the shocked looks on their faces but it was all just so hard to explain. Too hard to open his mouth to speak. 

Retreat was easier. 

Painting his story on the walls in order to answer their many questions was easier still.

When the man’s speech came, it was quite a long one. But then he remembered that a long time ago this same man had been able to talk him into things, or out of things, just by using the right words and soft dewy eyes that any puppy would be proud of.

“Gabriel, I need you. So, please, help us.”

Sam Winchester. That was the man’s name. And in a flash everything that Sam had been to him came rushing back. If there was one single human in this world who could understand, who would do anything to help him, it would be Sam. 

And so he spoke. Not the most deep and meaningful words he had ever uttered, but it was a start.

And then came the feeling, the one that he hadn’t realised that he had been waiting for all this time. Muscle memory from 8 years previous. The feeling of strong arms around him, holding him, lightly rocking him. A head gently resting on his, soft hair falling forward. The warmth of the soft flannel shirt that smelt of Sam, felt like Sam. Was Sam. 

He was feeling once more. Feeling with his heart.


End file.
